


We Paint Our Truths in Black and White (And Smear Them Into Grey)

by flamethrower



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual CC-2224 | Cody, Canon Divergence - Star Wars Expanded Universe, Don't copy to another site, Family Bonding, Family Secrets, GFY, Gen, M/M, Minor Self Harm, No one wants to go to Jabiim, Rescue Missions, Sort Of, how to earn a scar, mention of past rape, nothing explicit there though, unfortunate escape routes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-23 19:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: In a galaxy far far away, the 212th went to Jabiim, and everyone who survived left in a very bad mood.In a slightly closer galaxy, the 212th is instead assigned to clear the planet Hercuuli of Separatist droids. Eeth Koth gets the pleasure of Jabiim.Thingsstilldon't go well, but that's not exactly a new trend.





	1. This Won't End Well

**Author's Note:**

> I told you guys I had a lot of semi-completed Star Wars AUs lingering in my folders. Here's one of them. <3

The war has been raging for three months. Their original assignment was supposed to be Jabiim, which looked like a kriffing disaster any way Cody could look at it—and that was from a basic scan of the armament hanging around that system. On the ground, it would probably be a nightmare.

Someone pulled rank, or maybe his General had put his foot down. Cody didn’t know, but suddenly Jabiim was General Koth’s responsibility in a two-prong effort with General Unduli.

The 212th got Hercuuli, instead. Great. Fantastic. Go down to a heavily fortified Separatist world with just his General and the 212th at half-strength to pull off a straightforward assault on an armored wall bristling with enough firepower to turn them all into vapor.

General Kenobi argued against it, saying the situation was just as ridiculous as sending them to Jabiim—worse, even, as at least the 501st would have joined them for Jabiim. The powers that be, the brilliant minds of GAR Command, essentially told them to suck it up and deal.

More specifically, the Chancellor gave this impassioned bullshit speech about the need to rescue this planet from the Separatist chains of oppression. The Senate was on board, and everyone who _didn’t_ have to be on the battlefield thought this was a battle that was in the fuckin’ win column.

Cody knew the look on Kenobi’s face. They were all karked, and it wasn’t going to be a fun way to go.

Then they were on the front lines, faced with a scenario so familiar that it chilled Cody’s blood and made his balls want to hide in his throat. Kriffing hells. “The Rei simulation,” he muttered, and put a smoking hole in another droid.

“The what?” his General asked, lightsaber sailing from his hand to travel in a wide arc. The sweeping blue blade took out two of the gun mounts, but there were plenty more left to deal with.

“Nothing, sir,” Cody replied, and focused his attention on keeping them alive. It was all he could do; they both knew this engagement was a loss. _Live until rescue_ had become their motto.

In six hours, it was clear that rescue wasn’t happening. There were too many Sep bastards on the ground and in the air. It would take a miracle to clear an LZ, and Cody didn’t have enough explosives left to make that sort of miracle happen.

Hells, Cody was worried that he and the General were the only two men left alive. He hoped not; he hoped there were fringe groups of this half of the battalion hiding in the strung-out mess of their battle line, because otherwise….

Gods, he’d just lost a lot of men. The only thing left to make certain it counted was to ensure that the General survived. Much as Cody hated the thought, the Republic had a lot more brothers to fill in the ranks than it had Jedi.

“Sir, if they capture you, they will execute you as a war criminal!” Cody yelled under the cover of blaster fire. Their position was being advanced on, and there wasn’t much to do about it but shoot at them until the charge in his rifle ran dry. “You’ve got to leave!”

“And go fucking where?” Kenobi retorted, though he sounded kind of amused by the fact that they were surrounded and about to die. “And might I remind you, Commander, that if they recognize _you_ , you will be just as executed as myself!”

“Better me than you, sir!” Cody snapped, firing off a blaster bolt that nailed a droid in the face. Excellent.

“Fuck you, Commander!” The General didn’t sound amused any longer. “I would not leave you behind even if I had a miraculous way out of this clusterfuck!”

“So then what the hell do we do, sir?” Cody asked, and then let out a startled noise as Kenobi grabbed him around the waist and launched them into the air. They skipped over about a meter of rubble before falling down three meters away from their original position. It was a dugout of rock, not deep enough to be called a cave. Definitely not something that would hide them for long. The sounds of blaster fire were still constant overhead, but the rock muted it, made it feel a bit less like immediate death.

Kenobi was bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath in a rare display of exhaustion. “We, Commander,” Kenobi gasped as he breathed, “are going to need to look as less like _us_ as possible. In five minutes’ time.”

“You think if they don’t know our faces, they’ll do a POW sweep,” Cody realized. He felt a bit of an uplift of his spirits, at that. POWs were men who were still alive, men who just needed to bide their time until they managed to escape.

“It’s been their SOP so far,” Kenobi replied, straightening up. “I haven’t sensed anything that would say they’re about to alter procedure now.”

“You’re the only ginger Jedi in the GAR,” Cody pointed out.

The General snorted. “And you’re the only ranking clone officer who still has a face like a Shiny, Commander.”

Cody grimaced. “Kriffing shit.” He knew exactly how to fix that. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled the vibroblade from his belt. He didn’t turn it on; he needed a scar, not mutilation.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it— “KARKING KRIFFING SHIT HELLS!” Cody yelled as he dragged the blade down the side of his face. “THAT KRIFFING HURTS!”

Kenobi was suddenly in front of him, wide-eyed. He knocked the vibroblade from Cody’s pain-shocked grip and then plastered his hand over the side of Cody’s bleeding face. “Next time, warn me,” he whispered.

“Sir,” Cody agreed while trying not to whimper. Then he felt warmth on his face, heat that gentled the fire of what he’d just done to himself. “Sir?”

“A fresh wound would be suspicious, Cody,” Kenobi murmured, his lips pressed to a thin line of concentration. “You need a healed…well. If a scar was your intent, you will certainly have one.”

When Kenobi stepped back, Cody reached up and touched his face. He felt no pain, and beneath the slickness of blood was the beginning of a rough-edged scar—a healed scar. “Thank you, sir.”

Kenobi nodded and tossed him a cloth from his belt. “Clean up as best you can. No need for immediate suspicions.”

“Right.” Cody wiped his face dry while thinking. “Shit. I have to ditch my armor.” His face might be a bit less recognizable now, but his armor was damned distinctive. He’d designed it that way.

“Among other things,” the General agreed in an absent voice. Cody glanced over to find that Kenobi was using Cody’s vibroblade to carefully remove the beard from his face. Without water or any kind of soap, it would be a rough shave that would hurt like hell.

By the time Cody had ditched all of the distinguishing parts of his armor and tossed them down into the blackness of a convenient, water-carved tunnel at the back of the dugout, Kenobi was sans beard and most of his hair. He’d rubbed dirt into the remaining ginger bristle and his eyebrows, turning both a dull brown.

“Tunics, sir,” Cody reminded him. The sounds of scout craft had replaced blaster fire. They were running out of time.

Kenobi nodded. Without asking for any hint of privacy, he began stripping down the armor he wore over his tunics, and then the tunics themselves. Cody was surprised by the lack of body shyness, given how much effort the General put into remaining covered, head to toe, wrists to ankles. He didn’t even shower with the other men.

Maybe it wasn’t about a desire for privacy at all, Cody thought, but he did politely avert his eyes when Kenobi was wearing nothing but his own skin. “Do you have a spare set of blacks?” his General asked.

Cody nodded and dug around in his belt pouch for the compressed pack. “Yeah.” He ripped the seal so the pack would decompress and tossed it over. “Armor over the blacks, just like a clone, sir?”

Kenobi raised an eyebrow as he shoved his legs into the blacks. “Like the non-clone volunteers as well, Cody. Stop calling me sir. Stop calling me General. Right now. Drop the habit.”

“Then…” Cody thought about it and decided that his brother wouldn’t mind. “Not Cody, sir. Rei.”

Kenobi gave him a brief, curious look, but nodded. “Rei.”  He then held up his lightsaber, gave it a regretful look, and tossed it down the same water-carved tunnel that had eaten the distinctive parts of Cody’s armor. “Anakin is never going to stop mocking me for that.”

By the time Cody’s General was dressed again, parts of his armor and his boots on over the blacks, he looked nothing like Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi. It was far more like staring at one of the volunteer soldiers after a rough battle, dirty and worn. Kenobi had a bitter-eyed glare for the CIS Command Droid in charge of their post-arrest interrogation.

Cody wanted his rifle back. Being a captured prisoner was making his skin itch with the need to kill everything surrounding him except his General.

“What is your designation, affiliation, and rank in said organization?” the droid asked.

Kenobi’s eyes narrowed. “Lars, Ben. Volunteer ground trooper in the GAR. Rank: lieutenant.”

Cody approved. Not high enough on the ranking list to be worthy of ransom; not low enough to be considered useless and therefore up for immediate termination. “Rei, CT-7568, ground trooper in the GAR. Rank: captain.”

“Very good,” the droid said in a monotone. Then they were shoved onto a transport for “processing,” which seemed to be nothing more than travel to some unknown location, stripped down to their blacks and boots, and shoved through an airlock into a new facility. They were greeted by new droids, which meant rehashing their names, ranks, and affiliation to satisfy their kriffing programmed brains.

“You are now prisoners of the Confederacy of Independent Systems,” the blue-banded droid announced in voice made of deep gravel. That wasn’t a war model, but a containment droid. It had arms with pneumatic joints designed to crush someone Cody’s size in about three seconds. Definitely not his preferred way to go.

After they’re released into the main facility with instructions to seek out their cell assignment, Cody felt his shoulders relax. Not entirely; they were still in deep, dangerous shit, but at least a Seppie droid wasn’t going to be popping up to shoot at him. “If the name I gave filters through, they’re going to recognize that they’ve got at least one POW in this place, but they’re not going to know about you.”

Kenobi didn’t look concerned. “Anakin will know. The moment he realizes that the battle went to shit, he’s going to gather up a command group and start plowing his way through space to find us.” The general had a faint smile on his face. “It is one of the few times that I’m grateful that Anakin’s regards for the rules and regulations of command are a bit…lacking.”

Cody smirked. That meant the Commander wouldn’t give a kriffing shit about orders until he’d come to the 212th’s rescue. Cody’s Kaminoan-trained military instincts hated that sort of blatant insubordination, but the Mando’a in him loved that fierce protectiveness when it came to family.

The cell had two bunks mounted to the wall, a toilet with no privacy at all, a sink that was nearly rusted solid but still spat clear water, and not much else. At least the rolling door seemed to be jammed open. The facility was relying on the guards and the outer doors to keep their prisoners contained.

“Cozy,” Kenobi commented in a dry voice. “I don’t like how wide open that door is. I’d rather be able to use it to our advantage for defence if someone decided this prison needed a riot.”

“Read my mind, si—Lars,” Cody corrected himself. sitting down on the lower bunk. Without a blanket, it was like sitting on a hangar bay floor—cold and unyielding.

Kenobi was studying the cell. “Hmm. No listening devices or cameras of any sort. They went cheap on this facility.”

“Except for the fucking security on the outside,” Cody said. Getting into this place was easy. Getting out was going to take some work. “Who the hell is Ben Lars, anyway?”

Kenobi dropped down on the bunk next to him. Cody didn’t think he was faking the weariness any longer. They’d been on their feet of thirty hours now. “Ben Lars is my birth name.

Cody frowned. “Wait. Obi-Wan Kenobi isn’t your real name, sir?” Kriffing shit, he did it again. Even without listening devices, he could _not_ slip like that. “Lars?”

“No.”

“Why’d you pick that, then?” Cody asked, hoping his curiosity wasn’t pushing past some bit of privacy the Jedi held onto.

Kenobi looked startled, sputtering, “Pick? No! I’d like to think I’d have chosen something a bit less…ostentatious.” He shook off his surprise. “It’s a family tradition from my mother’s line, Rei. If you are chosen for the Jedi Order, you’re granted a different name. I don’t recall if it’s about keeping our families safe, or if it’s so that the family can distance themselves from the child, but that is what it is. The tradition is similar to the Naboo who choose political names which are unrelated to their family names.”

Cody nodded. That made sense. “If you don’t like it, why not go back to your original name?”

“I…it’s my name?” Kenobi seemed baffled. “It never occurred to me to do so.” Then he eyed Cody. “If we’re going to spend our first day of captivity being nosy, then who is CT-7568?”

Cody clenched his jaw. He’d expected the question, but he’d rather talk about that sometime approaching never. Still, this was his General. Cody owed him an explanation.

“CT-7568 was one of the third-gens that shadowed me during training. Time was, before the Kaminoans started rushing the process to keep up with the war, that the graduates from Basic, Combat, and Leadership would mother-hen a squad. Give advice, keep them from doing stupid shit. Help to shape them into the best soldiers they could be.”

Kenobi smiled. “I imagine you were a very successful hen.”

“No.” Cody sighed. “I mean—yeah, most of mine were successes, but to lose a brother in training is a hell of a black mark, sir. I don’t consider myself a success.”

Kenobi was quiet for a moment. “What went wrong?”

Cody appreciated that his General didn’t try to pep talk him. It would have been well-intentioned, but still bullshit. “There were six brothers to a squad, but my last shadow group in particular were just…they were damned shining examples of what it meant to be good soldiers, Lars. They knew the regs backwards and forwards. They could follow or lead. Flight or ground. It was obvious that they were going to be part of a Legion, not a standard army or flight group. They did their sim runs perfect, record time, _every_ damned time. The two brothers who led them to those victories, over and over again, were CT-7567 and CT-7568. Rex and Rei, we called them. They both had the genetic quirk for blond hair.”

“Sounds like it would have been a leadership pairing to send others scattering in terror,” Kenobi commented.

Cody swallowed. “Yeah. Rex and Rei together would have been a sight, sir. Instead, Rei died during one of their final simulation runs. It was a damned stupid accident that none of us saw coming until there was a body on the floor.”

“What happened?”

“One of the gun mounts malfunctioned, badly. Instead of throwing stun shots, suddenly it was a live fire exercise. Rei realized it before anyone else and took down the gun, but it nailed him a few times in the process. My brother saved his squad, but he didn’t survive the injuries. The squad, they were…” Cody smiled grimly. “They didn’t take it well. They refused to accept another brother to fill their squad back to capacity. As far as they were concerned, no squad they worked with would have more than five members. Honoring their brother. The 501st Legion liked the idea well enough that they all did it. Only military group in the entirety of the GAR who run five-man squads.”

Kenobi gave him a sympathetic look. “You think that you’re at fault?”

“No, that’s the thing—I know it isn’t my fault,” Cody said, but then he gritted his teeth. “Knowing it doesn’t change the fact that I blame myself, anyway.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s—” Cody caught himself trying to say that it was fine, because that would be a lie. He wasn’t going to lie to his General. “Thanks.”

“What about your other blond protégé?” Kenobi asked. “CT-7567? Rex?”

“Rex was never really the same after Rei died. They might as well have been raised in the same tube, they were so close.”

Kenobi frowned. “He’s dead, then?”

“What?” Cody blinked, startled. “No, Rex isn’t dead. At least, he’d better not be. He’s still 501st, and last I heard, he was up for a promotion or three. He’s probably at least a captain by now.” Cody shook his head. “Rex is still a fantastic soldier, sir. It’s just…Rex is _nuts_.”

Kenobi leaned back and smiled. “Leads from the front, does he?”

“Every. Kriffing. Time. I have no idea how he’s kept from getting himself shot a hundred times over. You two would get along great,” Cody added with a smirk. “Neither of you know how to sit back and let someone else get shot out for a while.”

“I do so!” Kenobi protested.

“Previous evidence suggests otherwise, Lars.”

Kenobi snorted. “Now I have to meet this man, if only to prove you wrong.”

“Got to get out of prison first,” Cody replied. “Any ideas?”

“Well…we have no idea where we are after they took us from Hercuuli. We don’t know if this facility is on a planet or a space station. We have no supplies and no allies save each other.” Kenobi considered it. “Give it about three weeks.”

“Better than months,” Cody muttered. Three weeks was still a long time to be away from the rest of the 212th and 7th Sky. Crank, Wooley, Grand, and Slingshot were probably all professionally panicking about being in command. “Now what, si—Lars?”

When there was no answer, Cody looked over to find that his General had fallen asleep in an uncomfortable, upright slump against the edge of the bunk and the wall. “Of course you did. Not like we could have discussed who was taking first watch.”

Cody settled more comfortably on the bunk, eyes on that gaping open door, and smiled. Anyone who tried to start shit in this cell would not like what they found.


	2. Next in Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin Skywalker had a problem. So, in his typical fashion, he went around the problem.
> 
> Or: 
> 
> Anakin didn't set out to give Mace Windu ulcers, but to be fair, Windu started it.

Anakin Skywalker had a problem. So, in his typical fashion, he went around the problem.

“Padawan Skywalker, you cannot simply— _claim_ a military group for your own selfish ends!” Windu yelled through the comm.

Anakin rolled his eyes, glad it wasn’t a visual connection. “Master Windu, this is not a selfish desire. My Master is still alive, and he’s trapped behind Separatist lines.”

“While that is true, it—”

“ _And_ I do recall the Chancellor making a speech before the Senate, oh…five days ago, I think?” Anakin grinned. “Something about how important it was to free this particular sector of space from the chains of Separatist oppression. Retaking this bit of space from the Separatists is still labeled Priority One, right?”

He heard Windu growl. “That is also true. It still did not give you the right to sweep up a battle group and go off half-cocked to fight that battle!”

“Well, Master, I did attempt to contact any available member of the High Council, but you were all a bit busy,” Anakin said, trying to sound contrite. He was pretty good at it by now.  Lots of practice using it against the fucking Council. “And I didn’t just sweep up a random battle group, Master. I tracked down the 212th where they were waiting on standby for word from Master Obi-Wan, and they were kind enough to let me on board.”

“Uh huh,” Windu said in a caustic voice. Anakin ignored him.

“The 501st Legion was nearby, and they’d just lost their Jedi General to heavy fire. We sort of came in and saved their asses with the last remnants of the Padawan Brigade, and uh…well, Master, that legion claimed _me._ ” Anakin hadn’t even met the legion’s command structure yet. It had been too much of a mess on the ground, coordinating with the 212th to help clean up the battlefield of wounded men, salvageable supplies, and the unfortunate dead.

Anakin always made certain that their brothers had a say in what happened to those bodies. They were people, soldiers who’d died doing their jobs, and they deserved better than the mass incineration practiced by far too many commanding officers in the GAR.

“A legion of the GAR is under the control of a Jedi General. Not a Padawan. Especially not _you_ ,” Windu added.

 _That wasn’t very nice_ , Anakin thought, but he was used to that, too. “Right now, there are no available Jedi Generals who have the means to take on the responsibility of a legion along with their standard army or flight assignments…except, y’know, my Master, who only has the 212th and 7th Sky. He could handle the additions without a problem.”

“You are an annoying upstart that I want to strangle with my bare hands,” Windu replied, sighing. “You’re also correct. Go get your Master, give him his new legion, and then _stay_ with Obi-Wan Kenobi until he and I both say you’re allowed independent action again, which will hopefully be around the heat death of the universe.”

Anakin grinned. “Yes, sir.” Who cared if Windu was being a prick? He had the permission he needed. Not like he wasn’t going to do it anyway, but now it was an official rescue instead of something he’d have to pretend to be sorry about doing later. “I’ll comm you with updates when I have them, General Windu.”

“You’d better, Commander Skywalker,” Windu growled back, and the comm clicked off.

“If it weren’t for our last engagement, you’d be picking droids out of Alderaan’s orbit right now,” Anakin said, stepping away from the comm. “Admiral Block?”

Block looked up from his station. “Commander Skywalker, sir?”

“It’s official. We’re good to go save your general,” Anakin announced, and grinned at the wave of relieved cheering that swept the bridge. He loved the 212th, because these men looked at Obi-Wan and understood why he was the sort of man you just had to love—even if he was sometimes kind of an idiot. “Tell the 501st to get their ships into our hangar. Once they’re sorted and we’re on our first leg of hyperspace into the Hercuu Sector, I need to meet with their command lineup.”

“I’ll let them know,” Commander Crank said, giving Anakin a sharp nod before turning away.

“Excellent.” Anakin took a breath and let it out slowly. He’d sort of unapologetically landed on the 212th and took over—which really was his job if Obi-Wan wasn’t available, he’d just never needed to _do_ it before. Crank was handling Anakin’s command all right, but Slingshot stalked around like he was being thwarted and Wooley just seemed panicked.

He wasn’t _that_ crazy. He wasn’t! Even the Padawan Brigade gave him high marks for keeping them alive—though Anakin was glad he’d been able to send them on back to the Temple. They were all kind of traumatized and needed new Masters, or maybe just to hide in the Healers Ward for a while and panic. They just weren’t built for situations where everything was wrong, all the time. Anakin had grown up in that mindset; going to war had been like greeting an old friend he’d kicked under the bed and forgotten about for too long.

What made it weird was how familiar his Master was with that feeling. Obi-Wan thrived on _everything is terrible_ just as much as Anakin did. It made Anakin wonder what the entire fuck Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship with Master Qui-Gon had actually been like.

Then again, Master Qui-Gon was a nutcase who’d bet on a nine-year-old to win pod races to buy ship parts. Maybe that was all the explanation Anakin needed.

By the time Anakin got down to the hangar bay for new troop inspection, he was starting to feel tired. It had been a really long day—days, actually—and it wasn’t over yet. He was also trying not to succumb to a crushing feeling of intense relief. The 212th was a battalion stocked with badasses who could keep up with his Master, but at half-strength, they wouldn’t have been able to cut a swath through the sector to find Obi-Wan. Even at full-strength, it would have been difficult going. Stumbling over the 501st was probably going to be a literal life-saver.

The 501st’s commanding officer was standing at the head of several columns of men in scuffed white armor with deep blue markings here and there. They looked like they’d been in several bantha stampedes already, but Anakin didn’t sense exhaustion. Honestly, the sensation Anakin got from them all was that the banthas were weak sauce, and when were they going to get a real challenge?

The leader pulled his helmet, revealing bright blond hair instead of the typical black. He gave Anakin a crisp, brief salute. “Commander Skywalker, sir. I’m CT-7567, Captain Rex.”

Anakin tried not to gape at him. “A captain is standing for an entire legion? Fuck, what _happened_ to you guys?”

The lineup for second command pulled their helmets, though all of them had black hair—or no hair—instead of more shocking blond. “I’m CT-5597,” the soldier with the large Republic cog tattooed over his face said after saluting. “Lieutenant Jesse, sir. A captain as Lead has sort of become a tradition.”

“Our first months out, the command line kept getting blown down so fast that we cycled up through the ranks a lot faster than most of us would’ve preferred,” Captain Rex explained. He held out his hand in what Obi-Wan had taught Anakin was preparation for a Mando’a style grip. “Properly, it’s Senior Commander Rex, sir, but we’re all paranoid. Captain will do just fine.”

Anakin gripped Rex’s arm and hoped he’d gotten it right. Nobody made insulted noises, so maybe that was a win. “That’s fine by me, Captain. Lieutenant Jesse, I’m assuming your actual rank is Regimental Commander?”

“Shh. Don’t tell anyone, Commander,” Jesse replied, winking.

“Same for us. I’m CT-8111, Regimental Commander, preferring to go by Lieutenant Attie, sir,” the next clone introduced himself. He had a scar over his eye that looked too perfectly squared to be a battle wound. “This is CT-8115, Commander Vertex, and CT-4413, Commander Cross.” The two men Attie introduced looked and _felt_ exactly alike, as if they’d always been meant to be identical twins. Neat. Thank goodness their armor had different glyph patches. “The cranky one at the end there is CT-6116, CMO Major Kix. He’s the only one of us that goes by his actual rank, since it hasn’t changed from the start.”

“CMO outranks everyone, anyway,” Jesse added.

“I’m not cranky,” Kix growled. “I’m furious. There is a karking difference, Attie!”

“This ship has a really good medical station,” Anakin decided to tell Kix. “CMO Zed could probably use some assistance in patching up the rest of our men.”

“Excellent,” Kix declared. “Pleasure to meet you, sir. The 501st has heard good things about Commander Skywalker during our time out.” Then he stalked off in the direction of Medical without waiting for Anakin to clear him. Fortunately, Anakin didn’t pay military protocol enough attention to care.

“All right. So we have a surplus of captains and lieutenants in this legion—at least, that’s what I’m assuming. Or did you backtrack everyone else’s rank, too?” Anakin asked.

Rex grinned. “No, sir. We’ve just got that surplus you mentioned. As long as you know the command lineup, you can find who you need. Now: how can the 501st be of service, Commander?”

Anakin grinned back. He liked Rex already. Just enough of a nod to be paying lip service to the command structure, and a hell of a lot of restrained mayhem. “We’re going to cut a swath of destruction through Separatist-claimed space. After we’re done kicking ass, it’s a rescue mission to retrieve the commander of the 212th and 7th Sky, along with my idiot Master.”

Rex’s eyes narrowed. “Commander Cody’s out there, sir?” He lifted his chin. “Then you can count on us, Commander. We’ll get them both.”

“Friend of yours?”

“One of the best, sir,” Rex answered. “How long until we see action?”

“Our first leg of hyperspace travel gives us six hours before a potential engagement.” Anakin dug out a datapad and double-checked the numbers. “Be ready at five hours and ten from now. We’ll brief in the hangar bay. Oh, and since Cody’s not here, you’re in charge. Line up _every_ available man in the hangar bay, because this is probably going to suck balls, Captain.”

Rex paled a little at the idea of being in charge of the 501st, the 212th, _and_ 7th Sky, but he nodded. “Understood, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I need to see to it that we’re all ready to play.”

“Permission granted, Captain.” Anakin watched the man march back to his people, gathering up his commanders along with the captains and lieutenants of each regiment. He didn’t give a fuck what the High Council had to say. The Council and GAR Command would only get the 501st back if they pried them from Anakin’s cold, dead hands.


End file.
